Dark Lord Dursley
by AlphaEph19
Summary: It started as a business trip to Albania. Next thing Vernon knows, he's playing host to the pissed-off spirit of Lord Voldemort! Their future seems bleak - but sometimes, the best of friends find each other in the most unlikely of places. ON HIATUS.


**A/N: **This idea grabbed hold of me and refused to let go, kind of like the cold that I've been fighting for the past two weeks. It started with the thought: "What if Lord Voldemort were trapped in a Muggle's body?" Then I thought, "Why not Vernon Dursley?" Things just kind of got out of hand after that. I hope you enjoy!

Also, I am portraying Vernon Dursley as an ethnocentric, egomaniacal Englishman. It should be obvious, but I want to point out that none of his views are my own. Please don't take offense at any culturally insensitive comments that he makes – I'm not trying to offend anyone, just to keep Vernon in character as the ignorant, blustering man that he is.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter. However, I do own a few shares in Grunnings Drill Company, and I strongly encourage you to invest. It's about to come under new management.

**Chapter 1: A Random Act of Cruelty**

Vernon Dursley had heard of karma before, of course. Who hadn't, after all? But he'd never given the idea much credence. It hadn't originated in England, so it must be flawed. Like foreign cars or toys made in China, eastern philosophical ideas like karma (or "chi," whatever that was) were doubtless riddled with holes and constantly on the brink of collapse.

This was why, although Vernon made a habit of being cruel to his fellow men (and women, and the occasional innocent household appliance), he lived without fear of retaliation from the universe. Perhaps he should have realized his own inconsistency, for his personal philosophy was a warped version of karma. It was almost like the old idea of "an eye for an eye," except that if anyone took Vernon's eye he wouldn't stop until the other person was chopped up into little tiny pieces.

Not that he had ever had to worry about such drastic forms of violence, of course. It was more the little things, the everyday cruelties upon which Vernon based his philosophy. If someone jumped in front of him in line at the coffee shop, he wouldn't push past them in turn – instead, he'd spill hot coffee on them "accidentally," and listen to their pained squawks with a complacent smile. If a neighbor's dog pooped on his lawn, he would (and had, on more than one occasion) creep out of his house in the dead of night, with a ski mask and a pair of pliers, and cut the brakes on his neighbor's car.

That was Vernon's credo, and he followed it diligently. So perhaps he shouldn't have been surprised when the universe turned his own philosophy right back on him. But, as it turned out, he was surprised. When he decided, for no particular reason except his own peevish whims, to push a tired-looking man in a turban waiting for the next train at the Albanian train station, the last thing that Vernon expected was to become the host of a desperate spirit filled with a hatred for all things non-magical. It was the last thing Vernon expected – but perhaps it was the one thing he deserved.

Of course, we're getting ahead of ourselves. The story begins much earlier, when Albania had seemed no more real to Uncle Vernon than Martians on the Moon, or the possibility that his hated nephew might one day turn out to be a wizard. The story, in fact, begins on a Wednesday, at precisely 11:05am, when Vernon heard the words that would change his life forever.

"Damn it, Dursley, did you cut the brakes on Gibbon's car again? He assures me that it was definitely _not_ his poodle this time!"

Oops… not those words exactly. The story _really _begins at 11:07, after Vernon had apologized to his boss, Mr. MacMaster, for cutting the brakes on his neighbor's car (his neighbour also happened to be his coworker).

"Forget it, Dursley," Mr. MacMaster said brusquely, waving off Vernon's blustering attempts to explain. "I don't want to hear it. Anyway, that's not important. I have a job for you to do."

Mr. MacMaster was everything that Vernon wanted to be: respectable, imposing, tolerant of zero bullshit and less nonsense, and most importantly, he was filthy rich. Vernon actually wore his moustache in imitation of Mr. MacMaster, but it didn't create quite the same effect.

"Sir?" Vernon asked, trying to look responsible and getting the self-conscious feeling that he was only succeeding in looking cross-eyed. "What is it you want me to do?"

"I need you to go to Albania. There's a conference on drills there, and we need to send a representative."

Vernon couldn't hide a gulp. Albania? He didn't even know where that was – but it was probably far away. Far from fish and chips, television, possibly even plumbing and central heating… Who knew what kinds of depravities were lying in wait in such savage, barbaric places? It was a prospect that filled Vernon with fear.

"S-sir?" he stammered. "I, uh… I don't have much experience, with… um, traveling."

Mr. MacMaster ignored his protests. "Nonsense, you're the perfect man for the job. Pack your things, and I'll have my secretary fax you the details. You'll be gone for two weeks. We're counting on you!"

In spite of his best efforts, Vernon couldn't do anything other than gape like a fish as Mr. MacMaster walked away.

That was that. Vernon had no choice but to cancel his appointments for the week, pack his trunk, give Petunia a sloppy, heartfelt kiss goodbye, and drive to Heathrow Airport, where he took the red-eye flight to Albania. He was promptly plunged into a different world, one which – to put it delicately – scared the bejeezus out of him.

For one thing, everyone seemed to look at him askance. Vernon Dursley was used to looking at other people that way, especially foreigners. Receiving that treatment from people he knew to be beneath his notice gave him the uneasy feeling that something was wrong with the natural order of things. How could a decent, God-fearing Englishman go to a foreign land and be treated like a dangerous outsider? It was simply beyond the pale.

Vernon relaxed a little bit at the drill conference. He was, after all, a businessman, and it comforted him to be in a room filled with other businessmen, even if they spoke different languages. He couldn't quite get past the smell of garlic, which seemed to be everywhere. Now, Vernon did not believe in vampires, but so much garlic made him sick to his stomach, and automatically made him think about all of the scary stories and supernatural specials on BBC. It didn't help that one of the representatives from the Albanian branch kept grinning at him, and seemed to have filed his canines to sharp points. Vernon shivered, and focused again on his paperwork, drawing strength from the blueprints of large, industrial drills.

The first week in Albania was harrowing, tiring, and full of culture shock for Vernon. But the largest shock didn't come until the first day of his second week, when he went to catch a train that would take him to a drill factory outside of the capital city of Tirana. On a bench under an awning, to the left of the train tracks, sat a very curious-looking man.

He wore a purple turban, and a long set of matching purple robes. Now, Vernon had only been in Albania for a week, but he knew that robes were not the usual form of dress in that country. But he remembered perfectly well when he had seen people in robes – almost nine years before, on the day when that blasted wizard Dumbledore had dropped Harry Potter on the Dursleys' doorstep.

Once the realization hit, Vernon's face turned as red as a beet. Those bloody wizards were everywhere! Walking about in broad daylight in their robes, getting up to all sorts of funny business! It just wasn't decent. Vernon was filled with a sudden, intense desire to lash out at the man in the turban.

Just at that moment, a train came into view of the station. A whistle blew, and passengers began lining up to leave the platform. Vernon saw his chance when the stranger stood up. He started walking forward, angling himself to approach the robed man from behind.

The train came to a full stop, and that was when Vernon made his move. He shouldered roughly past the stranger, knocking him to the ground with one insistent swing of his broad, beefy shoulder.

Little did Vernon know, at that exact instant, the shattered spirit of Lord Voldemort had been making its way toward Quirinius Quirrel as well. But a wizard's spirit is invisible to Muggles, and Lord Voldemort was far too fixated on his prey to notice Vernon until it was too late.

Voldemort had already gathered the remainder of his energy, using it to propel his astral self forward into Quirrell's body. He had been tracking the scent of magic for days, losing valuable essence in his quest to find a suitable host. Now, after years of waiting, the moment was finally at hand! He, Lord Voldemort, would return to the world of the living!

To his horror, Voldemort saw Quirrell get pushed to the side by a fat man in a grey tweed suit. Voldemort couldn't stop his momentum, and collided with the interloper.

If any wizards had been watching, they would have seen the ghostly form disappear entirely into the body of Vernon Dursley. But with the exception of Quirrell, who was too disoriented to see anything, the only people at the train station were Albanian workers and a few lost tourists. As a result, the only thing they saw was Vernon Dursley collapsing to the ground in a dead faint.

The screaming began a few seconds later, when the back of Vernon's head began to mutate and change, gaining new features such as slitted eyes, flared nostrils, and a cold, hard mouth. The first to run away was Quirrell, who had a slightly better idea than everyone else about what had happened, and knew he didn't want to be anywhere close when Lord Voldemort awoke.

Soon the train station was completely empty, save for the unconscious form of Vernon Dursley and his uninvited guest, who, for the moment, slumbered deep within his subconscious mind.

There are some who say that after a certain age, it becomes impossible to change. However, those people have never considered that there is no age limit on being possessed by a malevolent spirit. Vernon Dursley, although fast approaching the ripe old age of fifty, had just undergone a very substantial change, and it was the first of many to follow. In point of fact, Vernon would never be the same again. Neither, it must be said, would Lord Voldemort.


End file.
